


Down from the Iron Hills

by maglor_still_lives



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 05:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20384797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives
Summary: Dáin and some of his cavalry are trapped behind enemy lines. Can they escape?





	Down from the Iron Hills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smaug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smaug/gifts).

> This was written based on a prompt from the artist known only as Smaug! See it here: http://fav.me/ddf9dyi

He shifted in his saddle. Beneath him, his boar stamped and snorted. The animal was ready to fight, and so was this dwarf. 

Through the trees, the orc host stood screamed and clanged their weapons. Nakror squinted at them, trying to see past the dappling of leaves in the sun. 

It figured that the armies would meet in the only stand of forest between the Misty Mountains and the Anduin. His army had had terrible luck for these past few weeks, marching into one ambush after another, constantly following twisted paths to dead ends. They’d crossed the mountains to strike at Gundabad, right at the heart of the orc’s nest, but that had led them into this infernal wood, where it seemed they were constantly lost. Dwarves weren’t built for forests.

Dáin’s army had met up with his a few days before, and together, they were massive. Somewhere between the trees, snatches of red beard came in and out of view-- probably the young commander himself. The rumor in the ranks was that it was the biggest host of dwarves ever assembled, but that was just talk. Nakror was fairly certain that king Azghâl had commanded larger forces, and probably Durin too. 

But either way, they were a force to be reckoned with. Five hundred trained, fit dwarves from the Iron Hills, in good fighting condition and high spirits. Nakror could think of few things more terrifying.

Unseen in the trees, his commander grunted something. All around, the dwarves unsheathed their weapons and steadied their mounts, preparing for the charge. 

He hefted his spear and stood up a bit from his saddle. His boar knew what that meant, and he squealed in excitement. The cry was picked up by the steeds beside him, and soon the whole forest rang with teh snorts and bleats of the dwarves' hogs and sheep.

Suddenly, there was a surge of movement. Slow to move, Nakror kicked the pig’s sides to avoid being trampled. The animal sprung into motion and together, they crashed through the underbrush towards their unseen foe. 

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who missed the command. To preserve the greatest surprise, the dwarves were used to giving commands visually, be it a flag, gesture, or something more inventive. In the thick forest, there was no way to see it, and the constant droning of insects masked most verbal orders. 

Usually, the cavalry charged like a stream over smooth stones, but today, it was rapids. No more than half of the soldiers had moved on command, and while everyone else struggled to catch up, the riders formed eddies and flows. Fingers of sheep and boars reached forward head of the rest of the front; they had no way to see where the rest of the army was. Nakror saw one sheep stumble and go down; neither it nor the rider resurfaced in the chaos.

The earth rumbled as he charged forward, armor gleaming and spear at the ready. All around him, mounted dwarves leapt through the trees.

The orcs’ screams became louder until they were almost unbearable. Nakror steeled himself in the saddle and drove his spear into the opening between an orc’s neck and shoulder, then ripped it back out again with a satisfying squirt. The orc collapsed and did not rise. _ First blood _.

His boar was fighting just as ferociously as his rider. With armor plating all down his sides and a pair of massive tusks adorned with spikes, there was nothing he feared. He kicked, bit, and swung his head at the orcs, plowing them over one after another.

As his hog galloped down the slope, Nakror caught sudden, brief glimpses of his king and his foes. Dáin was mounted on an enormous boar, brandishing a massive warhammer: _ just like his father_. 

It was impossible to keep track of the anything else. All Nakror knew, all he cared about, was the layer of bodies that surrounded him. It was mostly orcs, and it stank.

He was bleeding, he thought. He wasn’t sure where it was from, but all down his side was hot and sticky. He was getting tired--and so soon into the battle. _ Something must be wrong. _

As he scanned for fresh threats, he noticed that he was the only dwarf around. Besides corpses--and there were a good many of those--the people he had been fighting alongside now seemed very far away.

It wasn’t just his mind, he realized, not just blood loss making him dizzy. They really _ had _ moved, and they weren’t coming back. The whole cavalry was moving east, and he had no idea why.

But he was not about to be stranded here. He spurred his hog in the direction of his comrades, charging through the orcs with abandon. But as he rode, the evil ranks seemed to grow ever thicker, and moving became harder. His boar was panting, and he might have been favoring his right hind leg too. _ No time for that. _

He put his heels to the boar, over and over again, but it was no use. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. There were too many orcs and nowhere to go.

_ Except back _. Nakror had left a trail of bodies in his path, and the ranks hadn’t closed on it yet. And just beyond, he saw a glimmer of trees that might have been freedom. 

If his steed was unharmed--and that was a big _ if _\--Nakror would be able to outrun the orcs, and he might survive. Otherwise, he would be overwhelmed in the swarm.

So he turned back the way he had come and galloped down the trail, leaping over the corpses and weapons that lay strewn across the ground. He didn’t even bother with his spear: it would only slow him down. The orcs were taken aback by his sudden charge, and they balked rather than attack him as he rode.

He could feel the boar slowing as he approached the end of the path. “_ No_,” he growled through gritted teeth. “ _ Faster! _” 

Intelligent animal that it was, it knew what he meant. It spoke well for their bond that the boar trusted his rider enough to speed up again, straight into a mass of orcs five bodies deep. 

He galloped through the orcs, sending them flying. And then, suddenly, he was free.

He didn’t stop. The orcs were still behind him, and in the absence of other dwarves, they were eager to give chase. But his boar had held his end of the bargain, and he barrelled through the underbrush without hesitation. Soon the orcs were lost in the trees. 

When they did eventually pull up winded, Nakror had no idea where he was. Not like he ever had, he supposed, but now he was even more confused than before. All these trees looked the same, and there wasn’t even the benefit of echoes to tell where he was going. Every passageway under a mountain looked different, but they also _ sounded _ different. When Nakror got lost, he could always trust his ears and the vibration of the ground to set him on the right path. 

But apparently, not anymore. All he could hear was the babbling of a brook and the chirping of insects that seemed to grow louder every moment. The spongy ground and the leaves that covered it absorbed all the vibrations of the battle, which when was probably less than a mile away. 

_ How do the elves stand it_, he wondered. The air was hot and humid, and flies had begun to circle around him as he sat there panting.

Looking down, he saw that his boar had broken the end off one of his tusks. _ If that’s the worst of it, I’ll be lucky. _

But he couldn’t dismount just yet. He needed to get back to his people, back to the fight. If he didn’t, that made him a coward. He would not abandon his commander in this hour of need.

So he set off, back to the spot where he had first stood waiting for the battle to bein. He didn’t know where that was, exactly, but it was probably a ways to the south, and judging by what little of the sun he could see through the trees, that was to his left.

He was glad he didn’t have to traverse it on foot. Brambles snagged at his pig’s ankles and branches caught in every crevice of his armor. Plus, he was getting tired fast. The damp spot under his arm hadn’t gone away, and it even seemed to feel hotter as the battle rush faded. A sharp pain began to reveal itself just beneath his shoulder, and he put his spear back on his saddle.

It felt as though he had been traveling for hours, and was thoroughly lost, when he heard a commotion in the woods. Snorting, growling, and the clash of steel on steel echoed through the forest, seeming to come from every direction. It was a horrible sound, filled with screaming. _ Dwarvish _ screaming. Nakror charged toward it.

In a clearing, a group of orcs and mounted dwarves were in the process of annihilating each other. It looked as though three from each side already lay dead, and that more were about to enter the same state. Wincing, Nakror pulled the spear from its holder and held it above his head, bellowing.

The orcs looked up and snarled back. Nakror stared them in the eyes. _ I dare you _.

It seemed they would not back down. The orcs began to run toward him, and he prepared to stab them in any weak spots he could find. The first one he killed in the neck, the second one above the jaw. The third never reached him. 

A huge, red-bearded dwarf on a pig had barrelled over and cut his head off before the orc even had time to turn around. He spun his steed and killed the other two orcs before stopping and looking around.

“That was some sport, yes?”

Nakror shook his head, gasping for air.

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that. Best fun I’ve had all year.” The red-bearded dwarf came over to Nakror, riding so close that their pigs began tossing their heads at each other.

“I would have preferred to stay with the army.” Nakror held his breath in and feigned composure, for this, he had realized, was none other than Dáin II Ironfoot, his very own liegelord. “Sir.”

“And miss all this?” Dáin was exuberant, for some reason. Maybe he hadn’t been stabbed yet today.

Nakror breathed in shallow pants, trying not to move the muscles on his side too much. Wherever that wound that was, it certainly hurt. “Where are we?”

“Not a clue,” said Dáin, undaunted. “I think my cousin’s off that way.” He gestured vaguely to the north.

“Should we go find him?”

“Absolutely! I can’t let him make all the decisions without me. I’d end up disinherited.”

Nakror turned toward the direction Dáin had indicated. The other dwarves clumped behind him, and together they set out through the trees.

It felt, again, like hours before anything seemed to change. In reality, it was probably less time--but the moments can seem monotonous when you’re a dwarf in a forest. Nakror focused on staying in his saddle. He was feeling lightheaded, dizzy, and by turns both hungry and nauseous. Beneath him, his hog was limping badly.

Night had fallen long ago, and they kept moving. Every time they stopped for a rest, someone swore they heard the army marching, and they had to keep moving again. Never mind that the army hadn’t been seen since that morning.

Dáin was inexhaustible. He kept walking no matter what, always in front, never complaining. Nakror both admired and hated him for it: he needed to stop.

But eventually, even the strongest of dwarves needs something to eat. They stopped on top of a hill that gave them a slightly better-than-average view of the surrounding forest and pulled out their provisions.

Most dwarves didn’t carry more than a day or two’s worth of rations into battle. The odds were that they would either die, and not need it, or return shortly, in which case the army would provide for them. Nakror preferred to travel with as little weight as possible, so he only had some dried meat and bread to replenish himself.

As soon as he dismounted, his hog sank to his knees and rolled over on his side. Nakror crouched and looked him over. There was a sizable rock stuck between his hooves on the right side, and a great deal of scratches from the brambles, but Nakror could see nothing else. Hopefully, the limping had just been caused by the rock.

For a heavily armored warrior, no steed was better than a good strong boar. Sheep were for the lightly armored, fleet-footed scouts, ponies served for long distances, but no animal had the same fighting spirit, intelligence, or bravery as a hog.

Now for himself: Nakror stuck his fingers beneath the top of his breastplate, and sure enough, it was soaked through with blood. But when he probed deeper, the wound itself seemed to have closed. Maybe everything would be all right.

It felt too risky to take off his armor, so he packed the area with bandages and left it as it was. Then, he leaned against his pack and let his eyes droop. He was exhausted from the fighting, from the countless hours spent wandering through the trees. _ The army’s moved on_, he thought. _ They won’t find you_.

But, then again, he was travelling with the heir to the Iron Hills. Hopefully somebody would find Dáin, and then Nakror could be caught up in that. That would be ideal.

Since he was already woozy, it didn’t take much time to fall asleep.

He was woken before dawn, when one of the other soldiers shoved him. “Get up. We’re leaving.” Her voice was weary, and Nakror realized she probably hadn’t slept at all.

He poked his boar, and was filled with relief when the great beast stirred and rose, armor clanking. Nakror gathered his belongings and clambered on, trying not to get tangled in the ferns as he did so.

“Are close?” asked one of the soldiers. 

“We must be,” returned Dáin. “Where could they have gone?”

The lord made a point. Dwarves weren’t exactly stealthy, and the trail of blood and turn-up earth shouldn’t be hard to spot. _ We must be very off-target _.

The set off in the same direction as before, hoping to intersect with the main army. Their one advantage was that they traveled fasted that the large force, seeing as they were far less encumbered with baggage and wounded.

The hours seemed to pass even slower on the second day. It was as though time had frozen and they were wandering an endless circle, never to notice the grand joke that had been played upon them.

They traveled for hours more. Nakror felt better than he had the day before, and so did his boar. Both were tired, but at least they were less injured.

It was midday when the sound of running paws crashed through the forest. .The hogs squealed and bunched together. _ Wargs. _

There was only a moment between the time he heard them and the time they came crashing through the trees. Gigantic orcs on even bigger wolves leapt for the dwarves on their pigs. Some of them were met with a spear in the throat; others had more success.

Nakror killed one of the attackers, but there were more. _ Why are there always more? _ Coming from every direction, great slavering masses of hair and teeth, all hell-bent on destroying him. _ Why? _ He’d never really asked himself.

Not that it mattered now. Nakror lifted his spear again, but his arm was getting weaker. An orc lunged at his face, and his grip broke---

He awoke in darkness. The pain in his head was so bad that he wanted to go back to sleep; he tried to pull the blackness back around him like a blanket. _ A blanket. _ He was cold. _ Where’s my pack? _ His thoughts were thick and slow. _ On my saddle, _ he remembered, _ where it always is. _

But where had he left his saddle? _ I was riding… _ that was the last place he could remember seeing it. The mere thought of bouncing up and down and side to side on a boar was torture, sending a heated knife of pain back through his face. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, but that action turned the knife from glowing orange to white-hot. The sensation was so intense he could not feel the worst of it; it was like when he stuck his hand in a boiling pot of water as a child. And suddenly, like a wave, it all crashed back over him. He remembered everything.

Fear grabbed his chest with icy fingers. _ The orcs! _ A few panicked obscenities chased each other across his mind. Breathing as deeply as he could while trying to stay quiet, he listened for signs of them. And sure enough, faint crunches of boots on leaves were moving all around him. One right next to his ear was so startling that he opened his eyes.

Doing so was the most excruciating thing so far in that journey, maybe in his entire life. His right eye opened easily, although it was perhaps a little sticky around the edges of the lid. But his left... it burned cold, the pain too great to be felt. Then, hot.

When his vision finally focused, a pair of bright green eyes loomed over him. Nakror grunted and tried to pull away, but couldn’t: someone was holding down his arms and legs. 

He smelled something hot. Something metallic. _ No_. 

“Don’t--” Dáin growled, an arrow in his hand, “--don’t let him squirm!”

_ Please. No_. But they did not stop, and Dáin moved the glowing arrowhead closer to his face. 

The heat was enough to roast a sausage, and it made short work of his face. His skin hissed and boiled, sending off gouts of foul-smelling smoke. Then it was gone.

He groaned, biting back a scream, and curled inward, reaching for his head. As his hand approached he could feel unbearable heat coming off of the skin, and he thought better of the idea. He dropped his hand to the ground and tried to make sense of what he could see.

The forest floor; mostly leaves. The bases of trees, ferns, briar bushes. Moonlight, giving the forest a silvery glow. His vision was limited; he could see the outline of his nose at the right side of his vision. 

With that fact established, he curled into a tighter ball. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he rolled to all fours. The world spun; he let the throbbing subside, holding down the vomit that was rising in his throat. Then, he knelt upright and stood. This proved a mistake, as his face rose up once again in protest. He staggered, bent almost double, and leaned against a tree until the pain ebbed.

He could see his boar form here, lying on his side a few yards away. Was he alive? Nakror tried to rush over, but as soon as he left the tree, his vision darkened and his balance vanished. He flopped back against the trunk, breathing hard.

He whistled. One of the animal’s ears twitched, or maybe it was just the wind. He whistled again. This time, the boar grunted and staggered to his feet. He lay back down almost immediately, and Nakror could now see the deep gash on his neck.

_ I need to see him _. He took a deep breath and walked away from the tree. 

He had only taken a few steps when his boot hit something, the small impact nearly knocking him over. Squinting, he made out a silver gleam among the leaves. He squinted harder and saw that there were runes running through a groove in the object. His mind began to hazily sort out the letters, and when they formed a word he was jolted to the realization that this was his spear. He rubbed some of the leaves off with his foot. It had snapped halfway down the shaft. The tip was still wet with orc blood, and a dead wolf lay just a few feet away. _ So, I got him right when he got me _.

He needed to get his legs back under him again. At first he leaned on trees for support, but then he regained his balance and went along unaided. The moon was about forty-five degrees to the horizon when he started pacing the camp, and by the time everyone else was ready to move, the sun was well risen. 

It turned out that Nakror wasn’t the only one who was injured, so he had a little while to wait while everybody else got patched up. Only one other soldier needed cauterization, and it was for a wound on his calf that was much smaller than Nakror’s, so it took less time and far less fear.

Even though the wound was cauterized, Nakror didn’t trust it not to get filthy and infected, and he didn't want a branch to stab it as he rode. He took the dagger at his belt and sawed off a strip from the edge of his bedroll. Satisfied that it was long enough, he cut another piece from his tunic, which was of a softer fabric. He folded the strip and placed it carefully on his wounded eye, tipping his head back to keep it in place, he used his hands to tie the long piece of blanket around his head. He pulled the knot slowly, easing it tighter until he was satisfied that the bandage would not fall out. 

He moved my head back to a normal angle and let his neck relax. Seeing taht everybody else was already waiting for him, he mounted and they set off. His eye hurt slightly less that it had when he awoke, but that was a relative measurement.

Morning came, and on they trudged. As the pain ebbed, hunger set in. Nakror had run through most of his food the previous night and had no means to acquire it. _ The army, _ he told himself. If he could even make it there. 

The deer path they were following widened, and then crossed a stream. It was small, maybe three or four yards across and barely two inches deep, clogged with leaves and barely flowing. He had put one foot into it to begin the crossing and saw his reflection staring back up at him. 

He froze and looked at it. This was his chance to see the wound.

He didn’t want to know. Not that he was afraid of blood, but he knew that his face was badly, maybe irreparably, damaged and he didn’t feel ready to confront that just yet. And if it was life-threatening--he did not think it was, not from blood loss at least--he certainly didn’t want to know about _ that _. He would rather just continue as he was. He was feeling better anyway, he told himself.

_ No _ , he told himself, _ coward. You can’t run from this. _ So with trembling hands he untied the strip of tunic that held the bandage to his head.

The piece of tunic came free, and the bandage dropped into the water. The reflection rippled, but all too soon the water was smooth again and he could see himself.

The left side of his face was ravaged. The whole hemisphere was swollen and bright red, and the jagged wound across his left eye was now a blackened scar. No wonder he couldn’t see out of it. Something rose in the back of his throat-- bile or tears, he couldn’t tell. 

He pulled the bandage out of the mucky water, wrung it out, and was about to place it back over what once was his eyeball when he thought better of it. That water was anything but clean, and unlike elves, he was susceptible to infection. It was rare in dwarves, but it happened. 

Sighing slightly, he cut a new section from his tunic. At this rate, he would have no clothing left by the time he returned home. 

The dwarves kept walking, just like before. It was quieter now, and their pace was noticeably slower. That was just fine with him.

It was late afternoon when they finally saw it. A swath of destruction, clearly trampled by dwarves in a hurry to get away from something. It reeked of blood, both dwarf and orc.

“I think we’re late,” quipped one soldier. 

Dáin shot him a biting look. “They should be that way.”

It was nice to travel a well-worn path, rather than to just pick one’s way through deer trails in the undergrowth. Nakror’s hog certainly appreciated it; his pace quickened noticeably.

The path looked like it was about two days old, but they were probably traveling faster than the army, so Nakror hoped it would only take them a day and a half to reach the rest. 

_ When you get there, they won’t let you fight anymore _ . That was a bad thought. He wanted to go back into battle as soon as he could. _I’ve seen people go to war without arms. An eye is hardly much of a loss_.

But in truth, it had affected him more than he cared to admit. Not only was a third of his vision gone, but he was finding it hard to judge how far away things were. Thankfully, his boar was good at that sort of thing. He also had a splitting headache and a sense of paranoia; if he couldn’t see what was on his left side, then surely, there must be something hiding there.

Dáin’s army had been well-supplied with medicine and healers. Nakror would bet that they saw injuries like his all the time. Hell, the castle quartermasters probably knew all about one-eyed techniques. Everything would be back to normal very soon.

Nakror was still worried by the orcs. There were strong traces of them in the path they were following, and if they were between Nakror’s band and the army, they would be a big problem.

They kept up their amble, though, going over rolling hills and under low-hanging trees that blocked out all the sunlight. Nakror had been born in a cave, and he never thought he would miss the sun. But now, the forest felt cold and dank and eerie, full of roads unmapped and dangers unknown. 

He pushed on, following Dáin. He clearly came from princely stock: cheerful, brave, and inexhaustible, he had good traits for a leader--as long as he learned to navigate a little bit better. But there would be time for that.

They kept a tight formation as they traveled down the path, in case orcs appeared again. Dáin was in the lead, and Nakror had found himself unexpectedly in the middle of the group. It felt infantilizing, but his head hurt too much to argue.

His boar was doing a fantastic job. Nakror could see the wound on his neck from where he sat, and it was already beginning to heal. It probably wasn’t as deep as it had seemed the previous night, and besides, these hogs had been bred for resilience.

They were reaching the top of a large hill when Dáin stopped short. Behind him, everybody jostled as they moved out of each other’s way and onto the crest of the hill. “Do yous see that?” Dáin asked. “They left!” 

And sure enough, the trails of the orcs and the dwarves diverged not far ahead. EVen from a distance, it was easy to tell the difference: the dwarf mud went deeper and was lined with the stripes of baggage wagons. The orcs footprints were larger, shallower, and was clearly made by a force in a great hurry. Where they were going, Nakror didn’t care. Just as long as they weren’t anywhere near him.

Overtaken by enthusiasm, Dáin sprinted his boar down the hill. The other dwarves, who were mostly mounted on sheep, cantered down and caught up with him easily. Nakror stayed behind, setting his own pace. Briefly alone, he found himself talking to his steed.

“Apples… when we get back, I’ll find you all the apples my money can buy. Beets, too. And bread! The quartermaster says it’ll make you fat, but you deserve it.

The animal snorted, as if he was endorsing the plan. 

When he caught up with Dáin, Nakror stuck to the right side of the group. That put three dwarves between his blind side and the forest. It made him feel a lot safer, but it did nothing to alleviate the butterflies in his stomach.

What would happen when he got back? Would the healers need to do something more to him? He didn’t think he could stand it.

Finally, the camp appeared on the horizon. They were home.

Dáin was welcomed with enthusiastic applause, hugs and handshakes from everyone in sight. The rest of the dwarves were treated with more caution. With half his face swollen, blood caked on his armor, and not a proper sleep in days, Nakror reflected, he must have looked positively feral.

He took his boar to the stables first. After receiving assurances, promises, and solemn oaths that his trusty steed would be fine, Nakror submitted himself to the care of the healers. 

It turned out there wasn’t anything more they wanted to do with him. He was ordered onto bed rest, and he could not have been happier about it.

The war continued, but for now, his part in it was over. Soon, he would be back on the battlefield (there was nothing the healers, or the sergeant-at-arms, or even the king himself could do to dissuade him from that), but not for a little while. For now, everything would be all right.


End file.
